


making the effort

by liesmyth



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Denial, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Some angst, Voyeurism, and weird angel sex magic stuff because 'tis the canon for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 10:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19271770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth
Summary: “Is this a temptation, Crowley?”“Is it working?”It was the wrong thing to say.Or: wherein an angel withstands a demonic temptation, Aziraphale suggests a compromise, and Crowley takes what he can get.





	making the effort

_“Heaven is not in England, whatever certain poets may have thought, and angels are sexless unless they really want to make an effort.”_ — Good Omens

 

 

It was a crisp spring night, and the Antichrist, who had been on Earth for a little over eight months, was sleeping happily in his crib in a little room in Oxfordshire. Meanwhile, in London, an angel and a demon were drinking together, as they often did, surrounded by books in well-lit bookshop while classical music played softly in the background on an old gramophone.

Or, at least, they’d been drinking until very recently. The situation had evolved at some point in the evening, and currently Aziraphale was on his knees on the floor, with a demon’s cock in his mouth.

He looked a sight like this, Crowley thought, with his cheeks flushed and his chin wet with spit, red lips stretched tight. The rest of him was as tidy as usual, crisp shirtsleeves and pressed trousers done up neatly and closed with a belt, and his hands felt soft as they pressed flat against Crowley’s thighs. They kept him against the wall, nice and still as Aziraphale swallowed around his cock, and Crowley’s own hands were closed into fists, his body tense with the effort to stay where he’d been put. He couldn’t tear his eyes off Aziraphale’s mouth.

When Aziraphale pulled back Crowley groaned at the feeling of cool air on his wet cock, jutting out hard and reddened, Aziraphale’s pale fingers wrapped around the base. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat, and this time Aziraphale’s eyes flickered up at him for the briefest moment before he looked back down, a small demure smile in place on his lips.

Crowley waited, trembling with anticipation, and then Aziraphale’s hold tightened around his cock and he leaned in to lick a wet stripe along the underside, and the feeling of that tongue swirling around the swollen head of his cock made Crowley’s breath hitch.

_It’s_ _good_. The thought made its way through Crowley’s mind, past the haze of alcohol and those uncomfortable feelings he couldn’t shake off. It wouldn’t matter, anyway — just the sight of Aziraphale there would be enough, the knowledge that it was Aziraphale giving this to him, but the part of Crowley that was physical and bound to a body of flesh and blood relished this carnal side of it, the feeling of Aziraphale’s hot mouth around his cock, his touch, the way his tongue was teasing at the slit. At least, he thought, he could have this.

When he came, gasping, Aziraphale didn’t let him shift away. He kept him in place, his hands on Crowley’s hips and fingers digging into the skin, as his throat swallowed around his cock, and the _noises_ he made— Arousal twisted thick inside of him, and Crowley’s legs shook as Aziraphale’s tongue teased the last of his come out of him, then kept at it even when he had nothing left to give, until that mouth on him felt so good that it hurt, and Crowley pushed weakly at Aziraphale’s sweaty hair.

“I can’t,” he choked out, half a whine, “‘s too much, _please_ —” and then Aziraphale pulled away, and Crowley thought he might fall to the floor any second now.

Slowly, they both straighten up. Well, Crowley did so slowly, doing up his trousers and smoothing down his shirt, and he couldn’t look at Aziraphale just now or he thought his heart might burst.

Aziraphale wiped his mouth with a cloth handkerchief, the kind nobody carried around anymore, and magically cleaned it before putting it back in his pocket. He didn’t look aroused. There was, Crowley knew from bitter experience, nothing for him to reciprocate.

Aziraphale looked at him. “Well, darling. More wine?”

 

 

There were about six hundred years between the day Crowley first thought seriously about getting Aziraphale into bed and the day he actually managed it. Then there were all the other centuries before that, of yearning and longing and a burning need he couldn’t even admit to himself, daydreams and fantasies and frail hopes, and perhaps if the end of the world were not so near he might have never made the attempt at all.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale began, hesitant, the first time he brought it up, speaking haltingly. Crowley’s own throat still felt parched with the effort of spitting it out after denying it for so long.

_I want you_ , he thought, and he stood still as he waited for judgement. _I need you. I—_ He stopped.

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale, again, this time with more warmth. “My dear. You know I value you,” he said, in that stilted way he had when he was thinking too hard about what he was going to say. “And I find you engaging, and… pleasing,” he went on, and then, “But—”

“Right. Let me guess,” said Crowley. “Something about me being a demon?”

“Well, I can hardly help it, dear. You _are_ a demon.”

“And you’ve been carrying out quick temptations on the side for the past thousand years, angel. I don’t see how you have much of a leg to stand on.”

“Crowley…”

“You know, I’ve seen how you look at me,” he said, and Aziraphale immediately looks away, guiltily. Crowley took a step closer. “Look, angel—”

“Is this a temptation, Crowley?”

“Is it working?”

It was the wrong thing to say, he knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. Aziraphale hesitated, and Crowley could see him _retreating_ , behind his shield of excuses and denial.

“I didn’t mean it like that! I’d… I don’t care about Heaven or Hell or— anything else. I only… about you,” he finished, mumbling, and somehow it felt like the hardest thing he’d ever said. “Look, I just…” He looked away. “Think about it. Please.”

 

 

Crowley didn’t usually like too much light in his flat, but today Aziraphale had insisted on it. The shutters were rolled up, painting bright stretches of sunlight over the bed, and he remembered Aziraphale’s amusement the first time he’d seen his bedroom. _Black sheets, my dear, really?_ he’d chuckled, and Crowley had smiled back, just slightly embarrassed, but now the sheets felt cool and soft under his body and Aziraphale seemed to like the sight of him there well enough, splayed out for him to look at.

“I’ll tell you what to do, dear, if that’s alright?” he said it gently, as if what they’re doing here wasn’t nearly obscene. Jerkily, Crowley nodded.

“You can start now.”

Hesitantly, Crowley raised his hand. Aziraphale’s voice washed over him, so warm. “Do it as if I wasn’t here.”

That was easier said than done. He couldn’t exactly forget about Aziraphale’s eyes on him, keen and quick and perhaps a bit darker than usual, couldn’t ignore that soft humming he fell into, under his breath, when he was pleased with what he saw. Crowley turned his head to the side, eyes falling closed. He pushed his trousers down to his knees, and his pants after that, shifted his shirt out of the way.

“Take everything off,” Aziraphale suggested. That wasn't not how Crowley would usually do it, not if he was just going for a quick wank, but Aziraphale was here looking at him and he wanted to make it good. Perhaps if he put on a good enough show, Aziraphale would touch him. If he pushed past all that angelic reluctance, maybe one day he’d even join him.

With half a thought, Crowley’s clothes disappeared. He wrapped his hand around his cock, half-hard, just from the thought of Aziraphale being here in his bedroom, where he slept. He thought about… well, it was always Aziraphale he thought about in moments like this, Aziraphale’s eyes and his lips and his voice, the way his hands felt on Crowley’s body, the smell of his skin when they were close together. He thrust into his hand erratically, wishing it was someone else’s, focused on the warmth of arousal spreading inside him and the gentle slide of cloth against his naked skin, hungry for touch.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale's voice called, and he stopped.

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Slow down. Gentler.” And then, “Open your legs a bit.”

Crowley bit on his lip so he wouldn’t make noise, not this soon, not just from Aziraphale suggesting that he was going to have a good look at Crowley getting himself off. He pictured what Aziraphale must look like right now, with that look of polite interest he got on his face sometimes, that bright-eyed way he had of looking at Crowley every time he did something that surprised him, before the reluctance set in. But Crowley’s glasses had gone along with the rest of his clothes, so he kept his eyes firmly shut.

“Is this good?” He said it with one hand on his cock, stroking slowly. His other hand dropped lower to palm at his balls, heavy and tight, and he groaned softly into the touch, then louder when he heard the soft breathing coming from where Aziraphale sat.

“Yes, that's— good," said Aziraphale. “Keep going.”

And then, when he was getting close, Aziraphale asked, “What are you thinking?”

Crowley’s hand stopped. He shifted on the bed, sitting up on his elbows before he could think better of it.

“You can’t ask that,” he said, his voice low. “Aziraphale. You can’t.”

“Can’t I?”

“You know what I’m thinking about, angel. Let’s not pretend.”

“Do I? Tell me,” Aziraphale said. “Go on.” And then he said, “Keep your eyes open. I’d like to look at them.”

Crowley let himself fall down on the bed with a huff. This time he didn’t close his eyes, but stared up at the ceiling as his hand found a rhythm again, touch warm with the flush of arousal under the skin, fingers wet with his own pre-come.

“I’m—” he tried, then paused. “I don’t—”

“Do go on, dear,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley swallowed past the heat in his belly and the longing he felt.

“I think. I think about you fucking me,” he said. “Coming inside of me.” And then, since he’d already bared himself in all ways, “Not just now, you know? Often. For years.”

He wanted to say more. That maybe they could close the window and do it now, in the dark, and they’d never talk about it afterwards and no one would know, because Crowley had always been good at keeping secrets and pretending that things he could see weren’t there. The words pressed at his lips but he didn’t dare to speak.

“I think about touching you. Taking off your clothes. I’d kiss down your body and I’d— I want to suck your cock,” he said, hoarse, and thought about making Aziraphale moan and gasp and spill into his mouth, Aziraphale's fingers in his hair, the taste of him.

“Are you close?”

Crowley swallowed. He nodded, slightly. “Yes.” And to himself, he thought: just by touching himself, and fantasising about what he couldn’t have.

“I like watching you like this,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt every word like a caress on his skin, stroking the heat of arousal building up inside of him. “You’re lovely. I could watch you for hours.”

“Touch me. You said…” It was hard to think. “Just— please.”

“Of course, dear,” Crowley heard, and then there was a ruffling sound and a sudden weight next to him on the bed, and when he turned his head he found Aziraphale staring at him openly, as if Crowley’s body was an interesting puzzle he was trying to make sense of.

Crowley turned his head away, face burning. Looking between his legs he saw Aziraphale's hand wrapped around his cock, just above Crowley’s own, and he licked his lips at the sight, mouth dry. And the _feeling_ of it — Aziraphale’s fingers around his cock, the touch of Aziraphale’s hand against his own, wrist disappearing under the crisp sleeve while he was completely naked. In the end, it was just the brush of their hands together that made him come in a ragged breath, his whole body jerking, tensing desperately for something more.

After, as he lay breathing on his back, Aziraphale’s hand touched his shoulder lightly.

“Turn around,” he said, and Crowley did it without thinking, pressing his face into the sheets. Aziraphale’s touch found his neck, caressing there gently, and he couldn’t help but lean into it.

“I enjoyed watching you,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley rolled his eyes even though he couldn’t see him.

“Thank you. Pure aesthetic appreciation, wasn’t it?” But it was hard to keep the cutting tone up. Aziraphale’s hand traced paths down his back, and it was better to be content with what he had instead of bitterly waiting for something else.

Then Aziraphale's hand slid lower, and Crowley went still.

“What are you doing?” He could feel his heartbeat in his throat.

“Shh. Just,” Aziraphale said. “Let me. It’ll be good, I promise.”

His hand trailed down slowly, too slow, and Crowley held his breath as he felt it caress his arse. “Are you going to,” he began, but he couldn’t say it. “Really? Like this?”

Aziraphale’s voice, too, was barely a whisper. “It’ll be good, I promise. You’ll like it.” And then he touched him again, just a caress, and Crowley couldn’t take it anymore.

“Yeah, all right. Just— hurry up with it.”

He had pictured this moment so many times, but he’d never imagined it would be like this. The pleasure of Aziraphale inside of him, bit by bit, the slow stretch, and in his most melodramatic fantasies they’d be staring at each other the whole time, whispering nonsense. And now it was happening and it would just be pretend, and he couldn’t even look at Aziraphale at all, didn't want to. He didn’t think he could take _slow_.

“Just do it,” Crowley says, again, and Aziraphale's finger slid inside of him with no effort at all, slick when it hadn’t been just now, and Aziraphale better have no objections about it because that was hardly the most egregious thing to happen to one of their bodies today. Crowley should bloody know.

He held his breath and let Aziraphale arrange his body the way he wanted it, urge him up to his hands and knees and shift his legs open, and Crowley pushed back into the touch and hated the feeling of Aziraphale's clothes brushing against his bare skin. Of course he wouldn't even undress, he thought, sourly, but this was something he needed and Aziraphale was giving it to him, beautifully, pushing Crowley’s head down by the neck and fucking inside of him with something that was not his cock, but felt like it, almost. If Crowley closed his eyes, perhaps he could pretend.

He thrust back against the toy until it began to feel good, heat sparking inside of him, and at some point he started to get hard again, but that wasn’t where this was going. Whatever was inside him felt in all ways like the real thing, except that it wasn’t, and Crowley pushed back against it again and again until he began to tire out, his thighs aching and hips tingling where Aziraphale's hands were touching his skin, his ears straining to hear the sound of Aziraphale breathing behind him.

It felt good until it became too much, and only then Crowley let himself fall back on the bed, sweating and tired, and whatever was inside of him suddenly disappeared, and the comfortable weight of Aziraphale's body wasn’t there anymore.

Alone on the bed, he shivered.

 

 

When they were first sent to Earth, they were given bodies made of flesh. The bodies looked human under every aspect, because it would draw unnecessary attention not to, if not for the part where they didn’t age, and did not really need to eat or drink or sleep if they didn’t want to. They could perform miracles and heal from wounds that would kill any human and, of course, they could change their appearance at will.

It took some effort to do so, but it was an ability Crowley had taken advantage of over the centuries. Sometimes he’d done it over the course of his duties and sometimes for pleasure, and some other times the two had been one and the same. As a demon, he’d dealt a lot in seduction. And Aziraphale… as an angel, he would have been the first to say that he didn’t have much to do with temptation* but, neverthless, he quite enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. The thing was, Crowley has seen Aziraphale naked over the centuries, once or twice, and the image of it was burned in his mind. He wanted Aziraphale’s body just as he wanted every part of him, and he knew very well how that body looked like, except that now it was different.

“I don’t understand,” he said, the first time he got Aziraphale to touch him, to strip off his clothes. Crowley had reached out to feel that body under his fingers, to grab at him even though he’d promised not to, because he was a demon after all, and a horny one at that. But his hands slid uselessly between Aziraphale’s legs — he’d wanted to make him _feel_ , he was good at it, he’d make it good if only Aziraphale would give him the chance, but there was nothing there. Nothing at all.

“You know, that’s bloody unfair,” he said — _whining_ , really, shaking at the feeling of Aziraphale’s mouth down his body. He wanted to do the same thing to him, wanted to make him feel how Crowley felt, but he couldn’t.

“It’s just practical,” Aziraphale retorts, looking like he doesn’t believe a word he’s saying.

“Practical? You… I can’t believe you did _that_. To your body.” It was getting hard to string words together. Crowley looked up at him, blinking. “And what for? Just so you wouldn't be... tempted? I’ve seen you looking at me, angel. It's too late to deny that you want me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Aziraphale said. “Now lay down, dear. I’ll make it good for you.”

 

 

The first year after the end of times had begun, things fell into a familiar pattern. They lived their lives as they always had, and a few times a month they’d meet up to discuss matters of the upcoming Armageddon, and the Son of Satan who was currently too young to understand anything but his most immediate bodily needs. They made plans, and Crowley congratulated himself on successfully persuading Aziraphale that this was one area in which consorting with a demon was in his best interests.

As for the other area, well.

Inevitably, for all his recalcitrance and odd denials, Aziraphale was always the one who started it. He’d push Crowley to the wall and go to his knees in the back of his bookshop, or in the private room of those fancy restaurants that he liked so much. He’d come by Crowley’s flat with a bottle of wine, showing up more often in the last six months than he had in the past sixty years, and afterwards they wouldn’t leave for hours. He’d run his hands over Crowley’s body until he got panting on the bed, made him come over and over until he sobbed with overstimulation, and Aziraphale would just smile gently the entire time and never, ever let Crowley do the same to him.

More than once, Crowley had been sorely tempted to put an end to it, to scream that it wasn’t fair that Aziraphale would deny them something they both wanted because he was too afraid to reach for it, but the words always got stuck somewhere in his throat. Getting Aziraphale like this, he thought, was almost worth not being allowed to touch him in return.

On the evening of the young Antichrist’s first birthday, Crowley and Aziraphale went to dinner at the Ritz, their own private little joke of an anniversary. They met there and left in Crowley’s car, and it was late into the night when the black Bentley parked in front of the bookshop, and when Crowley raised his eyes from the wheel he found Aziraphale staring at him, quietly.

He cleared his throat. “Are we going inside? Or, I could leave if you want. Of course. I didn’t mean that you have to… invite me—”

“No, here’s fine,” Aziraphale said, and it took Crowley a moment to understand what ‘here’ meant, because soon enough Aziraphale was leaning across the seats and his hands pushed at Crowley’s clothes, undoing his belt, and Aziraphale’s face was so close that his hair tickled at Crowley's nose, and his neck smelled like cologne and ink and the clear scent of his skin.

“Aziraphale,” he said, “I’m—”

“What is it?” Aziraphale pushed him back into his seat and slide his hand down Crowley’s pants. “Did you really wanted to wait until we got inside?” Aziraphale’s hand wrapped around his cock, and Crowley hissed.

“No,” he said. “It’s fine, I just…”

He blinked, and Aziraphale’s mouth was right there, so he leaned in and kissed him.

It was chaste, and hesitant, and Aziraphale made a curious noise and shifted like he might just pull away, but he didn’t, and Crowley figured it was good enough, just for now.

They went inside, and didn't speak.

 

 

* Although, of course, that is not true. The Arrangement has been in place for a thousand year, after all. No, not _this_ arrangement. The other one. ↑

**Author's Note:**

> ETA: I was made aware that this came out angstier than intended, so you all should know that in my mind things get better eventually. They've got a decade to work it out! 
> 
> This fic was inspired by a brilliant, brilliant [anon](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/373940.html?thread=2186388660#cmt218):
> 
> Aziraphale fucks Crowley, but doesn't Make An Effort. Or, rather, he makes a specific Effort to make sure nothing is going on down there, totally Ken-doll smooth, because if he doesn't have a dick he can't be tempted. And then he keeps initiating sex with Crowley, and Crowley goes along with it because even though it's not what he wants, he's convinced that pushing Aziraphale an inch will result in yet another rejection.
> 
> *blows a kiss to the sky* your _mind_ nonnie!
> 
> I'm on tumblr @[liesmyth](https://liesmyth.tumblr.com/); let's chat


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